Friday I'm In Love
by gosuloli
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221b after destroying Moriarty's network, but John isn't coping as well as he'd have liked. Rated M for future Johnlock smut, as well as some explicit language and graphic violence. Contains self-harming and references anorexia, so trigger warning is needed. Now complete, and I'd really appreciate reviews; this is my first fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

Moran trembled underneath Sherlock's firm grip. The light left Moriarty's eyes as he watched his first-hand man, the closest thing to a companion he had, be held at gunpoint. The click of the safety switch opening echoed in the quiet of the warehouse, cracking through the tension in the air. "One more chance", Sherlock said calmly. "Lower your weapon". Moriarty complied, dropping his pistol to the floor, the clash resounding around the room. Sherlock smiled, not caring how macabre he looked, as Moriarty shook with fear and trepidation. The pill in the Westwood suit, reserved for special occasions, was finally put to use as Jim reached into the pocket. Holding the pill in the air, Moriarty thought fondly of all the chaos he had caused during his time. He'd had a good run. But now that his time came, he had to admit to being a little afraid of death. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear, it was him or Moran, breaking Sebastian's fingers one by one whilst Moriarty protested.

"Take it". Once again Sherlock's voice rang clear through the silence; the clipped consonants may as well have been bullets for all the hurt they caused Jim. He swallowed, his mouth becoming dryer by the second, before raising the bottle in a toast and taking the pill. Sherlock watched with a grim fascination as the entire body of his mortal enemy began to quiver and, foaming at the mouth, dropped to the floor. The eyes glazed over and the face became slack; Jim Moriarty was finally dead. With a further shot through the head, purely for good measure, Sherlock turned the rest of his attention to Moran. This man had threatened to hurt John. This man had tried to hurt his blogger, his doctor, his only friend. The gun cracked once again, and blood and brain matter spattered the floor. The joy Sherlock felt was not simply adrenaline. The hunt was over. Every single one of Jim's entourage was dead.

Sherlock could go home.

* * *

John sighed as he limped out of his therapist's office. Once again, she had proven useless. John's limp had returned with a vengeance, and his coping methods now required something a lot stronger than a cup of tea.

The flat seemed emptier than usual when John returned home. A tupperware bowl full of lasagne had been placed on the kitchen table in his absence; a gift from Mrs Hudson. A post-it note stuck to it told John to eat, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to stomach it. The occasional piece of toast was difficult enough. Wincing at the movement, John settled in his chair, staring at the violin by the window. He hadn't been able to get rid of any of Sherlock's things since he... well, since the hospital. Today had been worse than usual. Mycroft had managed to clear Sherlock's name, and the papers were plastered with photographs of his flatmate. The walk to Ella's office, his only real reason to leave the flat any more, had tormented him, the photographs stabbing at his chest. He'd even had to skip his weekly visit to Sherlock's grave; confessing everything he ought to have said earlier had become as much a weekly ritual as getting dressed or making tea. Today was a bad day.

Heaving himself into the bathroom, John found the box of razors and the first-aid kit; he found his only release. Dragging the blade across his skin made John feel alive, it reminded him that he was, in fact, still walking and talking. He'd had trouble remembering that lately, that was evident by the lack of unscathed skin on his arms. Finding a fresh place to cut himself was becoming a challenge. He sank the blade into his skin and let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

* * *

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The jeans and t-shirt's he'd been wearing to blend in were uncomfortable, and Mycroft was late. The Friday meeting did not usually take so long. Sherlock's brother was his only contact with the world for the past three months, so he was the only one to help him return home.

"Not a moment too soon, Sherlock" professed Mycroft, looking less smug than usual. This was a cause for concern in itself, and Sherlock felt the worry settle in his chest. Was John all right? What was happening? Would he be able to come home? The questions remained unanswered as Mycroft settled in his chair, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. As a response, Mycroft simply passed Sherlock an iPad, playing footage from the security cameras in 221b. John. John on the floor. John cutting himself. John bleeding. John crying and gasping and howling as if he had lost the world. Sherlock's heart felt like it was in his oesophagus as he watched his best friend, the only person he cared about, the man he loved, try to cope with his grief.

"A car is waiting. John is in the flat. Go home, brother dear. I think you're needed". The compassion implied surprised Sherlock; wasn't Mycroft the one always telling Sherlock that "caring was a disadvantage"? Nonetheless, Sherlock wasn't planning on waiting to decrypt his brother right now. John was waiting. Leaping into the car wordlessly, Sherlock planned his return. What was he going to say? Worry crept in, overwhelming the excitement. What would John say?

Maybe caring was a disadvantage, if this was how it made him feel.

* * *

A tap on the door disturbed John's musing. Who would call? Mycroft and Lestrade had long since given up trying to talk John out of his depression; meetings with both involved throwing any heavy objects in the vicinity at them until they left. They had played a part in Sherlock's downfall, and for that John could not forgive him. Nobody came to see him any more, save Mrs Hudson, and she was away for the weekend. Struggling to a standing position, John hobbled over to the door and opened it.

"John".

Sherlock was shocked by what he saw. The grainy footage on Mycroft's iPad had not portrayed just how drawn John had become. He had lost weight, his bones were protruding and the once-snug jumpers now hung off his lifeless frame. Bags big enough to carry shopping in hung underneath the dismal eyes, dark circles amplifying the effect. John stuttered, completely unable to process what has happening, what had unwound before his very eyes.

"I'm back John. I've missed y..." Sherlock found himself unable to finish his sentence as John hugged him with more force than his skeletal figure ought to possess. Breathing in the scent that was still so inexplicably John, Sherlock wound one arm around his friend, using the other to tilt John's chin up. Blinking back tears, Sherlock closed the gap between them and their lips met.


	2. Chapter 2

Shit.

Sherlock's worry returned tenfold in an instant. John was straight, and Sherlock had kissed him. Fuck. Sherlock's verbose vocabulary didn't usually include profanity, but this was an exception to every rule. He stiffened and almost pulled back until John's arms wound tighter around him, holding him in place. Relaxing into the kiss, with the assurance of John's reciprocation, Sherlock began to catalogue everything he could about John. How his face felt drawn and bony. How he'd lost so much weight. How he winced at the pressure on his arms and thighs. As the kiss came to what Sherlock assumed was a natural end, both men drew back and stared at each other. John really did look ill. His newly-developed eating disorder was etching into the once-rugged frame, the insomnia weakening him, until he was nothing but a shadow of the John Sherlock had known and loved.

It was then that Sherlock got a real shock. John's fist connected with Sherlock's cheekbones with surprising vigour. The soldier in John hadn't entirely disappeared then.

"You left me" The accusatory tone stung Sherlock more than he thought words ever could. The self-proclaimed sociopath felt, and it hurt. It hurt terribly.

"I'm sorry, I know, and I- I will explain everything, I promise you, and it hurt to leave you and I'm sorry and I know I hurt you too but I had to and I..." Sherlock's blathering tailed off as he saw the look in John's eyes. He'd nearly killed this man.

"I'm... I'm glad you're back. You are back, aren't you? Not going to up and leave again?"

"No. I'm back. For good."

The relief in John's face was immense. He'd not forgiven Sherlock for what he did, not by a long shot, but he couldn't deny the joy at Sherlock's return.

"Why did you come back?" And here came the sting again, cutting into Sherlock's heart like a knife. John doubted him. Words suddenly seemed to leave Sherlock's mind, the incredible brain for once failing him. Every confession he wanted to say, every declamation of love and affection and care balancing on the tip of his tongue, but refusing to jump off. John shuffled over to the kitchen, switching on the kettle and Sherlock noted the return of the psychosomatic limp. Pouring the tea, John again blinked back tears as Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking at a loss for what to do. And he was. He didn't know what he could do or say to make everything better for this poor shell of a man. Collapsing onto the couch, Sherlock thought of everything he could have said, everything he should have said, and said quicker. John returned with the brews and added a "Hmm?", indicating that he wanted his question answering.

"Because I love you".

It was out in the open before Sherlock even realised his mouth was moving. John froze, the cup still half-way to his mouth, and the doctor's jaw dropped. A man who was previously proud to declare that he didn't have a heart loved John. What?

"I... What I mean is, I had to take out Moriarty's network, that's where I was, he was going to kill you if I didn't jump so I had to fake my death and you couldn't know because they'd kill you if they thought something was wrong so I spent this year killing all of Moriarty's network so that you could be safe and I love you and I've always loved you and I didn't want to at first because I always did think it was a disadvantage but I need you to know and I need you and..." Again, Sherlock's words failed him mid-flow. John still looked in shock. It took him a minute to comprehend Sherlock's rapid babbling; the man had been going at quite a pace.

"I thought you weren't interested in people. _'Married to your work'_ and all that".John had finally regained his senses, testing the waters before reciprocating anything. This could all be an experiment, John really wouldn't put it past the man.

"Until you, I was. I convinced that I was. I didn't need anything. I could use people, but they were pawns. Not like you. You were... different, and I'm not entirely sure how or why. But you fascinate me. I don't need to tolerate living with you, I like it. I like you fussing and I like how you care and I didn't realise it until I was gone but I need you with me."

Sherlock fell silent, frantic with worry that he had said too much. This had to be a shock for John, going from cold-hearted to dead to alive and emotional. This wasn't going to be easy on the man, but leaving it any longer would only let John self-destruct more, and that couldn't happen. He stayed silent, watching the smaller man struggle for words. Lexical fluency was never John's strong point, but he could usually get something out under pressure. Not now. Opening his arms, John hoped that a cuddle could express everything he couldn't. He knew just how to put words into motions, how a kiss could be an "I love you" and a hug could be an "I'm so glad you're safe but you're an absolute dick sometimes". Sherlock perked up immediately, almost running into John's embrace. Settling himself on the older man's lap, the detective again wound one arm around his blogger's back, using the other to stroke away the tears John couldn't remember shedding. Remembering the scarred thighs from the video, Sherlock shifted to his knees, cupping John's face, and murmured sweet nothings. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, a chaste kiss, but conveying so much emotion that even Sherlock was a little overwhelmed.

"I love you too".

Four words. One wouldn't think that such a short sentence could have such an impact, but Sherlock sobbed with relief, holding his blogger close and apologizing over and over again for leaving and promising to make it up to him, punctuated regularly by kisses plastered all over the doctor's face. Sherlock surprised himself. He had never been this affectionate, even as a young boy, with an ambivalent attachment type. But something in John made him want to re-enact clichéd romantic film scenes and declare love and grow old in a cottage by the sea with honeysuckle climbing the walls. The self-harming was an issue that needed addressing, but not yet. Not while he was basking in the glow of his lover. Love was still an unfamiliar concept to Sherlock, and relationships were entirely new to him, but for John, he knew that he wanted them. Still whispering assents of his affection, Sherlock caressed John's face and catalogued everything. The "John" room in his mind palace was expanding as he took in the illness that raged inside John. He needed taking care of.

"Let me look after you". The surprise in John's face was evident; Sherlock could barely look after himself, often refusing to, but he was offering to care for another person. John wasn't even sure he knew what this entailed, but found himself nodding anyway. Without another word, Sherlock sprinted to the bathroom to draw a bath, readying the first aid kit and some Lush products that one girlfriend or another of John's had left in the cabinet. The bath full and the temperature perfect, Sherlock retrieved John and led him to the bath, undressing him before hissing at the deep wounds John had carved all over his body. His arms were the worst. Angry red scars that should have been stitched littered the still-tanned skin, with barely any skin left untouched. Sherlock kissed the scars gently, looking up at his doctor. John looked embarrassed; his skin was flushed and he looked down, avoiding eye contact. Feeling the kisses, John looked at Sherlock inquisitively, opening his mouth noiselessly, trying to find some explanation other than the truth. "I know" was all Sherlock needed to say, as the tears threatened to fall yet again. Spraying nearly every inch of John's skin with antiseptic, Sherlock began to clean and dress the cuts; an act the doctor had seemingly neglected. Plastered with dressings, Sherlock finally helped John lower into the bath, shutting the door behind him as he went to fix a second cup of tea.

The meeting had gone surprisingly well, and though John had been a little more silent than Sherlock had hoped, he was optimistic. Maybe this would be the beginning of more adventures together, more running around crime scenes giggling inappropriately, more scaling fences in handcuffs, more of everything they'd enjoyed previously.

It was getting dark outside; Sherlock had arrived later than he'd like, and John was probably ready for bed soon. Switching on the lights and drawing the curtains, Sherlock fetched John's pyjamas from his bedroom and took the drink in to his doctor. John looked up as Sherlock walked in, trying to use his skinny, wasted arms to raise himself out of the bathtub, and failing dismally. The strength was all but gone in the once-taught body; the punch had most certainly been a fluke. The lasagne left on the kitchen table was definitely needed; John looked as if he hadn't had a decent meal in months. Truth be told, he hadn't.

Sherlock led John, now dry and dressed, to the kitchen, and took the eyeballs out of the microwave to accommodate the lasagne. So John hadn't moved them. Probably hadn't cooked either, judging by the look of him. Dumping a child-size portion on the plate, trying not to intimidate the man, Sherlock locked eyes with John. "Eat." It was a command, a request and a plea all at once. John begrudgingly took the plate and cut at the food, chatting with Sherlock amicably. It wasn't for a few minutes that Sherlock noticed that none of the food John was cutting up had entered his mouth. Laying a hand on John's empty one, Sherlock looked concerned. "Please eat. Please". John looked disheartened; this trick usually worked. "Should've known this wouldn't get past you", John joked, but he did look downcast as the first forkful made its way upwards. It took a long while, but eventually most of the lasagne was gone. Even the bit that John tried to hide in a napkin. Stifling a yawn, John began to ask more questions of Sherlock. Where had he been? How big was Moriarty's network? Sherlock's "death" didn't come into scrutiny; John still found it too painful to think about, even with Sherlock back. They talked long into the night, Sherlock telling John how Mycroft had been keeping tabs on him, and how it was going to be arranged so that they could solve crimes again, he could officially return to the public eye, John talking, after much pushing from Sherlock, about his attempts at suicide and the beginnings of an eating disorder and self-harming. The clock struck five, an hour before John would have, before, been getting up for work, before John finally admitted he needed some sleep.

Sherlock tucked him into bed, insisting that he would be taking care of him properly, and chanced a look at John before leaving the room. Fear was prevalent in his face. Why? Sherlock, whilst happily admitting to having emotions now, was still not particularly good at understanding them. Had he done something wrong?

"You're afraid". John nodded. "Why?". The doctor rolled on to his side, facing Sherlock properly, before beginning to mumble. "When I wake up, you'll still be dead and this will all have been a hallucination. You won't really be back, and I'm afraid to go to sleep because I want this to be true." Sherlock's heart bled at the stark reality of John's words; he had given this man some major trust issues, and he would need to work a hell of a lot to undo his damage.

"What if I was here when you woke up? I can... I mean, if you'd like, if you're amenable, I can... stay here..." Words, Holmes. Use them. And coherently.

Nodding, John shuffled over in the bed to accommodate Sherlock, curling up in the 'little spoon' position, inviting Sherlock's embrace. Both men drifted to sleep with a hope for a better life.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for soppiness. There's going to be definite smut in the next chapter, just a forewarning, and they return to Scotland Yard. I'd really appreciate any reviews if you have the chance, I want to improve as much as I can.**


	3. Chapter 3

The cold, grey light of morning in London seeped through the cracks in the curtains, and Dr. John Watson stirred in his fitful sleep. Gradually becoming aware of an arm draped around him, cuddling him even, he realised that this was not a usual start to the day. No alarm clock had screeched his sleep to a halt. The events of last night slowly flooded back to the doctor, and John smiled as he pulled Sherlock's arm to him closer.

"Awake yet?" The duclet tones of John's newly returned flatmate disturbed the quiet peace of that Saturday morning. It was only 6.30, and most residents of London were sleeping off their hangovers or being jumped on by toddlers. Hands down, this was definitely the best way start the day. A mumbled reply was seemingly enough confirmation, and Sherlock leapt out of bed, throwing the curtains apart and gazing into the rain.

"Listen, about... last night... what? Did you...?" Eloquence failed John; this was far too early for this shit. He was straight, and he had kissed a man, and he was in love with a man, but still unquestionably straight. That completely worked out and made perfect sense.

"I came back, we kissed, we hugged and I slept here. You seemed to want the company." Sherlock began to fret again; was last night a fluke? Simply a by-product of returning? Staring out of the window purely to avoid eye contact, Sherlock added in his usual, aloof manner "If you want to forget it, I do understand, I believe you're having a minor sexuality crisis and may prefer to delete this simply to ease your understanding of the matter."

John sighed and rubbed his eyes blearily. Tea was needed. "Sherlock, sit down. You may be right about the crisis, but for future reference that is _not_ how you approach an emotional matter, but I don't want to forget it. I'm just assuming that you do, considering how eager you are to get away from me today".

"No".

One word answers weren't really enough in this situation, but John was pretty happy that he got a verbal response; it wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to answer a question by leaving. "No to what? 'No' to you don't want to forget it? 'No' to you wanting to get away from me? 'No' to my refusal to delete last night? Come on Sherlock, I need a bit more than that".

"'No', I don't want to forget it, and 'No' to wanting to get away from you; I predicted the crisis, and wanted to provide you with an easy escape route. I understand that sexuality is often difficult for the individual to understand, particularly in circumstances as extreme as these, and I didn't want to pressure you." Sherlock turned and began to prowl towards the bed, towards his sleepy companion, lowering his voice to a murmur. "I am, however, delighted that you don't want to delete it, simply because.." He kissed John's forehead "I can't".

John visibly relaxed into the contact, reaching up for Sherlock as he clamboured back on to the bed. Punctuating his utterances with kisses on Sherlock's soft lips, John mumbled "How can... I be sure... that you... won't leave... again". Sherlock cupped his blogger's face, kissing him deeply, before leaning their foreheads together and looking into one anothers' eyes. "I won't. I promise. And you know that I'm not going to make a promise I won't keep."

Smiling at the reassurance, John leaned up for another deep, passionate kiss, pulling Sherlock into his lap. Feeling the younger man's "morning glory" against his stomach, John found himself wanting to be taken. The army is rife with homosexuality, so it wasn't as if John had never batted for the other team, but it was never on the recieving end. John always gave. Yet something in this beautiful, beautiful man made him want to change that. Holding his detective to him closer, John leant back, pulling Sherlock on top of him, never breaking the kiss. He reached down, cupping Sherlock's alabaster ass through the boxer briefs, feeling the man's cock harden considerably more at the contact.

Moans and mumbles escaped Sherlock's mouth as John's skilled hands massaged his backside, groaning into the kisses as his hips canted uncontrollably. It did not take a genius to realise that Sherlock was a virgin; as a matter of fact, John had been his first kiss. John's hands wandered to organs far more intimate, and Sherlock gasped audibly as John palmed him through the underwear. It wasn't until John slipped his hand under the waistline that he realised how incredibly big Sherlock was. His height was definitely reflected in his dick. Sliding his hand up and down, ever so gently, and with a feather light touch at the sensetive head, John could feel Sherlock getting more and more worked up. "How far... do you want to go?" John mumbled into Sherlock's ear before kissing the pulse point underneath it. "Everything. Anything. Oh, god, John, that feels... ugh... amazing."

Smiling at Sherlock, who could have quite easily been an advertisement for the epitome of pleasure at that point, John increased the pressure, pumping Sherlock before flipping him over and pounding on the painfully hard cock. "Ah... Fuck-yesjohnyesyesyes... Oh god, ohhh" Sherlock's whines felt like music to John's ears, each groan, grunt and inhalation sounding like a Mozart symphony. He knew that Sherlock would reach a crescendo soon, so began sucking him in earnest, inhaling him right to the base before licking the frenulum over and over again, all while pumping himself. This turned him on far too much. He could feel himself getting close, and judging by Sherlock's higher pitch and erratic breathing, the feeling was definitely mutual. With one final inhalation, Sherlock was plunged balls deep into the hot, wet cavern of John's mouth, and came hard, each burst of semen being drunk hungrily by John, like an alcoholic sucking the last drop out of the bottle. John's resilience, usually so strong, broke, and he finished messily over Sherlock before collapsing on his side, panting.

"Proof enough?"

Showered and dressed, John armed with a cup of English breakfast, the pair fell into their usual seats in the living room and planned how they would reveal Sherlock to the rest of their friends. Mrs Hudson was easily arranged; she arrived back at Baker Street only that afternoon, and slapped Sherlock hard enough to leave a hand print for hours afterwards. Lestrade, well, he deserved a bit of a shock after letting Donovan and Anderson poison his mind, so turning up unannounced at the Yard and demanding a case would do perfectly. It may have earned Sherlock another punch, but the looks on their faces; they made it completely worth the pain.

London was unnatturally peaceful. That was the conclusion in the post-Yard discussion. No interesting murders, no serial suicides, no cryptic messages. Just drunken brawls in pubs. Sherlock was bored. The cold cases Lestrade had been kind enough to provide them with, after the shock had subsided, were doing nothing to appease the quiet.

John, however, was.

The eating disorder that reared its ugly head after Sherlock's supposed death was in full swing; John rarely ate any more, and purged most of what he did. The conclusion was that John had an inferiority complex, worsened by Sherlock's death and fueled by his depression. Sherlock needed John to eat; the thin man seemed to grow fainter and fainter day by day. With nothing else to focus on, Sherlock designed games and tricks to get John to eat at least something once a day. His favourite by far was rewarding John with sexual favours for every plateful he finished. Bribery, yes, but effective. It was a month at Baker street before John regained his vigour, much longer to rebuild his soldier's physique.

Just as John was thinking he could get used to quiet, lazy mornings in bed, he was awoken abruptly by his partner bouncing atop the bed, positively glowing with glee. "Murder, is it?" John groaned, still in his morning stupor. With a nod, Sherlock flung some clothes towards John and ran to dress himself.

"The game, Dr Watson, is back on!"


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock explained the case to John in the taxi to the scene. Apparent double suicide, left a cryptic message, could be something interesting to it. They reached a house in the more suburban area of London, well-to-do families living here, largely elderly, with nothing of particular interest usually happened here. Meaning of course that the net curtains up and down the street were twitching, windows thrown open despite the chill in the air. Sherlock sighed. Cases were usually a damn site easier when the entire neighbourhood wasn't listening in. The house in question belonged to a young couple; feminist sociologist Laika Ross recently gained publicity by publishing a book on progressive feminism that had become a hit. Originally from Yorkshire, she'd moved to London to be nearer the action, so to speak. Her partner Caeris, also a sociologist, having met at university (none other than the LSE, Sherlock noted) had also published a paper on women in government. A lesbian couple, could be an "honour killing", as they say; fundamentalist families have been known to use their religions to justify murder previously. But no, this was something different.

The women were hung from the large oak tree in their back garden; a pulley system utilised the branches of the tree, meaning that little strength was required to hang the couple. Interesting. Probably a small, weaker murderer then, most likely female due to the small, high-heeled shoe prints found in the mud. The note, left under the telephone to ensure the murderer would overlook it, read "JQ24PJ UPC BDGXPGIN BTXAXP QTCCTI".

"Oh, you clever women! Smart move!" The exclamation from Sherlock surprised John, and apparently the rest of the forensic team. This had everyone stumped, but just a look and he knew? Grabbing a pen and paper, Sherlock sighed and began to fill in the lesser minds.

"A Caeser shift cipher, all the letters are fifteen spaces ahead in the alphabet, used fairly commonly, quite surprised you hadn't spotted it, in fact." Sherlock now took out his phone frantically googling after hacking on to the wifi. "Numbers are the same and give a postcode for a set of railway arches that form an industrial estate in Acton. UB2 4AU. Find it. Fan of Moriarty, needs to be dealt with swiftly. Name is Melia Bennet. That's our killer."

Sweeping out of the guarden, looking as mysterious as ever, Sherlock was pursued by John, struggling to keep up. "You're leaving them to go find her?"

Sherlock, as patronising as ever, gave John the sort of 'you must be really stupid' look he usually reserved for Anderson. Of course they weren't. Calling a taxi, Sherlock went to his mind palace to formulate a plan. They needed to speak to this Meilia before she was arrested. Find out her plans. It had not escaped Sherlock that Meilia had targeted a gay couple first; John and he were not public, but these people had a way of finding social things out. Particularly when Mycroft insisted on bugging the flat. Judging by the computer history, the couple both frequented Sherlock's website and John's blog, not stopping after his supposed death and peaking around the time that Mycroft cleared his name in the media and his return to the public life was announced. This Meilia Bennet may have been a personal acquaintance to the Ross'; likely, due to her low profile. Even the most rigorous of searches would have revealed nothing more than she had been a student at the London School of Economics at the same time as Laika and Caeris, but dropped out in the second year, and knew well enough to keep her facebook profile private.

Reaching the industrial estate, Sherlock and John wordlessly got out of the car, searching for their killer's hideout. The only abandoned section of the bridge looked fairly unkempt and was the easiest place to begin searching. They only needed to open the door before they heard the click of a safety switch on a gun going off. The sound ricocheted around the room, the acoustics definitely working in their favour. Sherlock and John could hear the click of stiletto heels on the hard concrete floor; leather boots, if Sherlock was correct. How imaginative. Yawn. John's hand twitched towards his only slightly illegal handgun in preparation for their raid, itching to draw it. Slowly, ever so slowly, they inched past the door and into the darkened workshop. Dusty tables, so she wanted everyone to think this place was unoccupied, but a clear path in the dust through the maze of work stations; regular route, taken frequently over the past week of so.

The gunshot was too fast. Almost as soon as it was heard, John was falling to the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

Fuck.

This was the second time this week that Sherlock had internally cussed, highly unusual, but this was for much worse reasons than the first. Swiftly pulling the door closed, with John firmly outside it, and firing three shots into the air (much quicker than telephoning), Sherlock surveyed the damage.

Abdominal wounds are serious. The first few minutes are crucial in most cases, and the extreme weight loss only worsened his chances. Many vital organs could be compromised if this wasn't mended quickly. Taking off his trademark blue scarf, Sherlock applied pressure to the wound and kept John talking, kept him awake. Stroking the hair away from John's forehead with his spare hand, Sherlock told John of how what people said was true and how he wanted to be with him and how sentiment was definitely not a chemical defect found in the losing side and how they'd eventually retire together and live by the sea, in St Anne's or somewhere quiet. He told John everything he'd ever wanted, and exactly how John fulfilled those desires. An ambulance arrived, probably thanks to Mycroft, and Sherlock heard himself saying that he needed to ride in the ambulance with him, he needed to be with John, and nobody complained. A private room at St Bart's had been prepared, again, probably Mycroft, and John was rushed into surgery to remove the bullet and observe the damage.

What felt like hours later, Sherlock was finally approached by a doctor. The prognosis was good, John should make a full recovery, and he was allowed visitors. He could finally see his John. Sherlock pondered for a millisecond on when John became "his" in any way, before rushing into the room to see the results. John looked, if possible, even thinner than ever, lost in an oversized hospital bed. His eyes were open, but glazed from the morphine. Fairly compus-mentus though, that was surprising. Sherlock might have to revoke his earlier statement; sentiment may very well be a defect if it made him hurt this badly.

"I heard what you said. Before". John's voice was weak, he sounded so small and unhealthy. So unlike before the Fall.

"I meant it. Every word". Sherlock suddenly found nothing to say. It was all well and good to confess having feelings to a dying man, but knowing that John could hear him made it all so difficult. Sherlock had lived as a self-proclaimed sociopath, adopting the diagnosis of anti-social behavioural disorder as a teen, for most of his life, shirking emotion entirely. It was John that had changed everything. He'd made him feel. The doctor had made him human. And admitting it, openly accepting that he could love and feel and hurt, that he'd been wrong, was not pleasant at all.

The look in John's eyes though, seeing that Sherlock truly loved him and honestly wanted that life with John, made all the anguish of admitting defeat worth it. John's adoration of Sherlock, his ability to put up with the man despite his foulest moods and most irritating habits, made every ounce of pain Sherlock had ever felt worth it. Even the torture of being apart from his blogger whilst tracking down Moriarty's men; worth it. As long as Sherlock could be with John, it was all going to work out.

John's eyes were beginning to drift closed; he was exhausted and the surgery, not to mention the drugs, were taking it's toll. "Get some rest, love, I'll be here when you wake up", Sherlock said, anxious that his doctor would heal. John nodded sleepily, shutting his eyes and turning on his good side, his arm outstretched. Sherlock took his hand, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb until John's breathing steadied and slowed and sleep overcame him.

"Well, isn't that a sight for sore eyes, brother".

Mycroft's drawl cut through the comfortable silence like a knife. Sherlock groaned audibly. Mycroft was the last person he wanted to see right now. "Caring is most decidedly not an advantage, if it allows you to leave a murderer in her hiding place with the knowledge that we know where she is." Sherlock was getting increasingly pissed with every second Mycroft spent in the room. "Nevertheless", he continued, "the police have been given the address and a raid is being carried out as we speak. John is to stay here overnight, and provided that his condition remains stable, he will be released into your care in the morning; I know how you despise hospitals. You will be given full training regarding how to address his injuries, and are entirely responsible for his aftercare. Are we clear?" Mycroft gained a nod from his brother, and turned to leave.

Sherlock, for the second time in so many minutes, groaned. With a look of pure and utter disdain, he turned to his brother, not relinquishing his hold on John's hand for a millisecond. "Don't you want to know how he is?". Knowing the answer would be no, he continued. "And don't you have anything to say upon my return but a message from the nurse? I asked you to look out for John if something happened to me. I asked you to make sure he was all right. And look at him! Does he look like he is all fine and dandy?" Silence ensued and Sherlock returned his gaze to his lover, pointedly ignoring Mycroft.

"I'm sorry for your pain". The door closed behind Mycroft and Sherlock was left to fall asleep in the chair, head resting inches from John's, and holding his hand as if he was holding on for dear life.

The morning arrived far too slowly for Sherlock's liking. He had only managed to sleep a little from all the worry, and nurses were checking the room every time he managed to get his eyes shut. Nonetheless, the morning did, in fact, arrive and John was fit to discharge himself from the hospital. During the taxi ride back to Baker street, the air was tense. Sherlock worried, petrified that he had done something wrong. Did he admit all those things too quickly? Did he crowd his lover? What was it? It never occurred to him that John may be having the same issues admitting his feelings; Sherlock had assumed that John, much more experienced with relationships than him, would be struggling to come to terms with feelings for a man. Homophobia is as rife as homosexuality in the army, and John's squadron was teeming with the former.

Helping John up the stairs, Sherlock assisted him into bed, ran to make a cup of tea and brought it to his side. He needed rest; the nurses made that perfectly clear. Passing John the steaming cup with a kiss, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and shuffled uncomfortably. They needed to talk, that was clear, and as they say, no time like the present, but Sherlock was unsure of how to start it.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. I just want you to know"

Hearing this, John's face split into a fantastical grin. Even with the second bullet wound of his life, John was incredibly happy. Sherlock relaxed instantly; even more so when he heard an "I love you too".

"I meant what I said, at the warehouse. I want to be with you, properly with you. I want people to know, I want to hold hands going down the street, I want a real relationship, like you used to have with all of those women. I want to be with you. And it scares me because before you, I'd never even felt a remote attachment to someone, I thought I was entirely incapable of feeling at all. I was a sociopath until I met you. And now I have to admit that I was wrong and I have all these feelings and I can't quantify them. And it's really scary." Sherlock looked down, unable to make eye contact. It was only when he felt the bed shift that he looked up; John had stretched out his arms, inviting an embrace. Snuggling into his partner, Sherlock relaxed again, the increased heart rate and adrenaline from his babbling subsiding. "I want that too, you know. And you're the first man I've been with, so I'm scared too. But it will be fine. We have each other. It will always be fine." John was surprised at how easily the words came, when he had been struggling for them since they had sex.

"Won't Mrs Hudson be pleased!"


	6. Chapter 6

As it turns out, Mrs Hudson was exceedingly pleased, hugging both of "her boys" to her chest and bustling around to make them a celebratory pot of tea. Similar reactions came from Molly, Lestrade and Mike Stamford, who introduced them. The shock and ever so slight disgust on the faces of Donovan and Anderson was a bit off-putting, but their friends were pleased.

John was making a full recovery, from his eating disorder and bullet wound, and the weight gain was fantastic; enough to give him a shape and stop him looking so skeletal, almost back at his original physique. Even Sherlock, with his erratic eating habits, had regained the half-stone he'd lost during his absence. Mrs Hudson had been feeding them up well. The self-harming on John's part had stopped too; a fantastic achievement. The scars were gruesome and macabre, marring, in Sherlock's opinion, a beautiful body. Sherlock was astounded by the change in John's health, and regularly informed him of how well he was doing. Only in passing, and never making a big deal of it, just letting him know.

The pair awoke one morning, after Sherlock had slept for once, to the sound of rain drumming on the roof and thunder rolling through the sky. Kissing John's pulse point, Sherlock smiled at John. "Morning John" he mumbled into his lover's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "Mornin'" came the bleary reply, clouded with sleep. Relaxing into the embrace, John felt Sherlock's arousal pressing against his ass; he grinned. They'd not had chance to have sex until this point; the bullet wound had caused him too much pain. Turning over, John kissed Sherlock full on the mouth, having a minor internal breakdown about the risk of his own morning breath, and reached down to caress Sherlock's impressive erection. They always slept naked, and the habit felt like a blessing to John this morning. Sliding down the bed, John engulfed Sherlock's cock without any warning, and the man beneath him moaned loudly at the sensation. Swirling his tongue around the head, John focused on sucking Sherlock right to the point of climax.

Just as Sherlock felt the coil in his stomach reach its tightest, John stopped, looking up at Sherlock with lust-filled eyes, pupils dilated. "Take me". Those two words, John found, stirred something in Sherlock that had laid dormant for far too long. Reversing their positions, Sherlock found a tie to attach John to the bedpost, and pounced on the painfully hard length. John grunted, pulling at his restraints in a futile attempt to escape. Sherlock sucked, trying to remember what John did to him that felt so good, whilst reaching for the lube he kept in a bedside drawer. It was originally for an experiment, but waste not, want not.

Smearing the lubricant over three fingers, Sherlock began to gently circle John's entrance with his finger before pushing up to just the first knuckle, giving him time to adjust. He needed time to prepare properly; Sherlock did not want to hurt John in any way. It wasn't until Sherlock had eventually got two fingers in all the way that he found the prostate gland; John bucked off the bed and swore loudly, moaning all the while with pleasure. Sherlock smiled, stroking the bundle of nerves until John could manage all three fingers, impaling himself on them as he circled his hips. Sherlock smeared more lube on himself, then slowly lined himself up with John's entrance, waiting for the nod of admission. Inching in ever so gently, Sherlock gasped. It was so hot, so tight, it felt incredible. He didn't know this was what he'd always wanted until now. It was no wonder people killed over this, John felt amazing against his aching cock. When Sherlock was fully embedded in John, he waited, giving him some much-needed time to adjust. The ache John felt was dull, Sherlock had stretched him well, but persistent. After a while, John nodded again, shifting his weight on the bed. Sherlock, after pulling all of the way out, snapped his hips back and hit John's prostate almost immediately, the doctor arching off the bed and almost screaming at the intense pleasure.

"Not going to last long if you keep doing that" John muttered, utterances punctuated with heavy breaths and grunts. "Neither am... ugh... I" came the lustful reply. They locked eyes, and all of a sudden it became much more intense. Sherlock began to up the pace, hitting the gland with each and every thrust. Sherlock leant down, kissing John deeply, trying to convey all the emotions he couldn't. He didn't have the knowledge of feelings; he could only vaguely match the words up to the right ones. But he needed John to know that he had never felt this good about anything, not even the drugs had given him an effect so stimulating, so completely and utterly perfect. Still thrusting in and out of John, Sherlock looked John dead in the eyes. "I love you. I -ohh- love..."

They were both getting close, reaching the crescendo, and Sherlock reached a hand between them, stroking John's length in time with his thrusts. John moaned, panting louder until...

"I'm... Sherlock, I'm going to..."

"Let go, come for me John. Come for me"

At his request, John relaxed, letting the climax wash over him in waves of pleasure. The tightening around Sherlock's cock as John's muscles contracted was too much to bear, and, combined with the sight of John finishing, sent Sherlock over the edge. With a deep thrust, he spilled his seed into John, groaning loudly. Collapsing onto John, Sherlock slipped out of him and just cuddled him, holding him as close as humanely possible. It felt wonderful to be so content, so satiated. Feeling a kiss on top of his dark curls, Sherlock looked up at John, at his lover.  
"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too."

Smiling giddily, the pair met with a kiss before John passed Sherlock a baby wipe, to clean himself up with. Not even getting out of bed, they were clean(er) and back in their original positions before long. Sherlock had something he needed to say, but he didn't know the words for it, he didn't know how to express this bubble of joy he felt in his chest in anything comprehensive; he couldn't quantify any of this, but that wasn't scaring him so much any more. John had told him to "just go with it", and Sherlock had obliged, finding that it wasn't quite so scary, this feeling business.

"I just want to tell you, that I don't want to ever be away from you. And when I see you I just want to hold you and keep you safe and never let anyone hurt you. I find myself wanting to indulge you in all of those silly things the couples do in those boring films of yours. And I'm not one hundred percent sure what it is, because I'm still not used to emotions, but I think it's love. And I just want you to know what you mean to me. And how I want to be with you for the rest of my life. And I think I'm asking you to marry me."

Sherlock looked away, petrified of rejection. The words were out of his mouth before his brain had chance to analyse possible responses. John could be scared off, he could decide it's too soon. None of the scenarios Sherlock played out contained an acceptance. John, however, had other plans.

"Yes!"


	7. Chapter 7

After months of meticulous planning, teary tantrums on all fronts, and a slight push from Mycroft to change the law regarding marriage, the day finally dawned. It surprised Sherlock how excited he was; before John, the idea of committing to one person for life baffled him. How could one be so sure that what they had would last forever, and that nobody would tire of the other party? The idea of love itself was a foreign concept until John, and Sherlock was still inexperienced and unsure of how things worked. But he was learning. He learnt, on their first Valentine's together, that forgetting about a public holiday could cause upset.

John waited in his dressing room, nervous as hell. He was excited though; today they would announce their vows and set off on their honeymoon. They'd decided to write their own (Sherlock's idea, surprisingly enough) and John was worried about his. Was it too clichée? Was he going to stumble over his words? "What if?"s chased one another around his brain, mirroring the butterflies in his abdomen. He felt ever so slightly sick with worry. Harry entered, looking radiant in her bridesmaid's dress, having tackled her alcoholism. She smiled at John, his traditional tuxedo emphasizing his rugged, handsome appearance.

"It's time" was all she said. It was all she needed to say. Taking John's arm, she led him to the registry office, soothing him with words that John hardly noticed. Telling him how handsome he looked, how lucky Sherlock was to have him, and how she was so proud of him. She led him gently into the foyer, and waited patiently with him as he bounced on the balls of his feet. If this was how nervous John was, goodness knows what Sherlock, a self-proclaimed sociopath, a man who previously barely knew the definition of "love", was feeling.

Little did John know that Sherlock was as calm and collected as ever. Mycroft, having escorted Mummy and her ridiculous hat to her seat, returned to Sherlock to offer some last-minute advice. Like John, however, Sherlock hardly paid attention to his brother's speech; when did he ever? A slight discomfort in his abdominal region indicated mild nerves, adrenaline beginning to seep into his bloodstream, but nothing worse. He remained, in appearance, at least, cool. Internally, his brain was gushing with excitement; pictures of what John and he could do, not all of them PG-friendly, soared around; them in bed together, them sharing a country walk that John was so fond of, them sitting in a loveseat in some gaudy gardens, in a coffee shop, even just walking down the street holding hands; all of it seemed so much more exciting when they'd be a married couple. Images that would have induced nausea in his younger years suddenly filled him with joy and anticipation.

Sherlock hardly noticed as Mycroft led him to the office, where John was waiting at the altar. , and Sherlock began to pace down the isle slowly, his eyes meeting John's and, inexplicably, brimming with tears. The registrar began to speak, starting the service as John and Sherlock held hands. They were both slightly sweaty, but refused to break contact to wipe their hands. The time for the vows came, and, as agreed, John went first.

"Sherlock, when I met you I was a shell of a man. The war had taken everything from me, and it had even begun to take my body. You gave me a life of excitement; of chasing criminals around London, of staying up until 6 in the morning when I had work the next day, just to look at some interesting marks on a body, of getting attacked. It has its downsides, but I honestly would not change any minute of my time with you. When you left, it felt like a part of me had died, and I can't tell you how happy I was when that part came back. Now that we're here, saying our voys, I'm absolutely ecstatic; the idea of being with you, for the rest of our lives, is just wonderful in every way. So Sherlock, I love you. I always will. And I'm never giving up on you."

Sherlock, his eyes already brimming with tears, had trouble containing them. He suddenly began to worry that his own speech would be insufficient. Hearing it from anyone else might have induced retching, but from John, it meant the world. Clearing his throat, hoping that his voice wouldn't catch and betray him, Sherlock began.

"I always thought of myself as a sociopath, married to my work and with no time for anyone else in my life. I'd never even had a friend before you, John, and you changed my entire life. I didn't think I was capable of feeling anything until you turned up; you just turned into such an important part in my life. I would kill for you, and I know it's mutual; we've done it often enough. But you're absolutely wonderful to me; you put up with my moods and my playing at three in the morning and all the body parts in the fridge, and you have no idea how glad I am of that; I don't know what I would do if I had to lose you again. And because I've never said it before, I'm sorry for all of the things I do that upset you. I love you, and I will for as long as I live."

Sherlock glanced at John, worried that he might have said the wrong thing, but saw a single tear trail down the man's cheek, and smiled, knowing that they both had said everything they wouldn't previously. The "you may kiss the groom" could not come quick enough for either of them; they needed more contact to wipe away each other's tears, reassure one another.

The reception was a strange experience; John's army mates that hadn't been repulsed by a gay wedding had turned up to make it a drink-fuelled party, Sherlock's family, all there for propriety, were raising the bar a little. It turned into a sort of amalgamation of the two; everyone was getting hammered, but with class. Lady Antebellum's "Just A Kiss" was the couple's first dance, and as they swayed together, John couldn't think of a single thing that could make this any more perfect; the man he loved, officially married to him, and with all of their friends in the room. This was amazing.

As they set off in the Bentley, Sherlock squeezed John's hand gently, mouthing an "I love you" as the car set off for the airport. The honeymoon had been planned entirely by Sherlock, with John kept entirely in the dark. He didn't know they were heading for an exclusive spa, in Paris, with no cases, not even a mobile phone to interrupt them. It was going to be heaven. But nothing, not all the drugs in all the world, could beat the high he got when John mouthed back "I love you too".


	8. Epilogue

"I'm too old for this shit."

Sherlock laughed at John's feigned grump. It was true though, the pair may have kept in shape with all of their running around the city, but this year would be John's 60th birthday; they would have to retire, at least from the physical aspect of the cases. In the years since their wedding, the duo had continued to solve crimes for the Yard, even getting paid full-time for it; a wedding present from the chief of police, of all people. They'd adopted a girl, in her twenties now, and given her the most loving family she could have wished for. Incredibly intelligent, she was an author now. Neither father could help but smile with pride whenever their thoughts turned to her; she'd done her parents proud.

Focusing on the task at hand, Sherlock followed John's still lithe frame into the building where the gang hid out; EDL fanatics planning to bomb the city and frame the local muslim community. Despicable. The bombs had been assembled, Sherlock noticed, and the room was highly dangerous. They couldn't shoot in here. It was only when they crawled out of the boxes they'd crept past that they noticed the ring of people. The ring of criminals, knives out, staring directly at them. They weren't going to get out of this. Pulling their guns out, John and Sherlock shared a moment of understanding. Snapping off the safety switches, they began to count.

One.

Two.

Three.


End file.
